


when evening falls so hard

by sxldato



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crying Sam, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Episode s01e03: Dead in the Water, Season/Series 01, love that tag wow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 18:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9337172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: Sam's nightmares call for some old tricks Dean keeps up his sleeve.





	

**Author's Note:**

> here's a nostalgia whammy for you all, hope you enjoy it, i'm very tired  
> i tagged this as gen but it's like. lowkey gay idk bye  
> title is from "Bridge Over Troubled Water" by Simon & Garfunkel

Dean had always been a light sleeper-- an asset, given his job description-- which meant that he always knew when his little brother wasn't in bed like he was supposed to be. 

It had come in handy when they were younger, because Sam would often decide to sit on the floor and read picture books to himself. Picture books became worn-down paperbacks from the library, and those became heavy textbooks about ancient civilizations, advanced calculus, systems of government and law. Time and again, Dean would toss something in the general direction of Sam's head and grumble at him to go to sleep, so help him God, and Sam would retreat under the blankets. 

That was a long time ago. Apparently it still came in handy now.

(Dean didn't know this yet, but it would continue to come in handy for many years to come.) 

Dean rolled over onto his back, annoyed at the sudden weight of consciousness on his shoulders and unsure of what had woken him in the first place. When he fixed tired eyes on the salt lines by the windows and the front door and found they were all intact, he flipped back onto his stomach and tried to slip back into sleep.

But then he spotted the sliver of yellow light spilling from beneath the bathroom door, and the empty bed next to him. 

"Sam?" He called out in the dark, voice hoarse from drowsiness. When there was no response, he huffed a frustrated breath and tossed the sheets back as he got out of bed. "Sam, what the hell is going on--" 

Upon reaching the bathroom door, he could make out the faintest sounds of what seemed like someone trying very hard not to sob: torn-up whimpers that trailed along the edges of shallow breaths. 

Dean was honestly crossing his fingers for this to be some good old-fashioned food poisoning; he'd take dealing with little brother puke over little brother grief any day of the week. 

"Sam?" Dean tried the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked. A positive, except it meant Sam's distress was so high that he hadn't bothered to lock the door. Not so positive. "I'm gonna come in, okay?" 

The scene before him was pitiful, if not utterly heartbreaking. 

Sam sat on the floor by the toilet, wrapped up in a hoodie (it might have been Dean's, but they didn't keep track of their clothes anymore) and almost as pale as the ceramic tile that lined the walls. He rested against the lip of the tub, one hand propped up to clutch his forehead. He looked sick, he looked scared, and a part of Dean shattered at the realization that this wasn't something he could fix. 

"Sammy..."

"'M okay," Sam managed, not even turning to face Dean. 

"Don't pull that," Dean protested. "Don't try and lie, not to me."

"Dean, please--" One hazel eye peeked out from behind a set of fingers, bloodshot and watery-- "I need you to go." 

Dean muttered a soft  _fuck that_ and took a few steps into the bathroom, not bothering to turn on the light. "You sick or what?" 

Sam attempted to draw a breath, but it caught in his throat and sent him spiraling back into the erratic near-sobs he'd been making earlier. 

"Hey, hey, slow down." Dean knelt down and pressed his palm flat against Sam's spine, hoping it was received as the comforting gesture it was meant to be. Sam's entire goddamn body was trembling, and his lower lip wobbled with the threat of tears. As he shielded his face from Dean's line of vision, Dean put two and two together: 

Sam was _embarrassed_. 

Sam didn't get to hide his feelings like this; that was Dean's job, as an older sibling and a self-proclaimed guardian. 

"Tell me what's wrong," Dean said with the firm tone he'd learned from John, the one that wiped out any chance to protest but held a reassuring kind of strength. 

There was doubt in the way Sam's eyes flickered between Dean and the rest of the room, like he was searching for an exit. 

"N-nightmare," Sam finally stuttered, wiping his eyes with shaking hands. "I'm so tired, but I _can't_ \--" he grabbed fistfuls of his hair, wild and unkempt from all the tossing and turning he must have done, pulling so hard it seemed that Sam thought his problems were buried in the roots of the dark brown curls on his head. "-- She's there, every time, and I can't, I can't..."

Dean didn't have to ask who _she_ was. 

"You're not helping yourself getting all juiced up like this," he said, taking Sam's fists gently in his own hands and loosening them from his hair. "You gotta breathe if you wanna calm down."   

Sam's next breath was more of a gasp than anything else, but it wasn't thready or uneven. He swiped his wrist across his nose and tipped his head back until it hit the wall with a dull thunk. His eyes were screwed shut in concentration; he was trying really, really hard to follow Dean's instructions. 

"Anything I can do?" Dean asked, and Sam shook his head. "Alright, just keep breathing." 

Sam came down from the initial anxiety-high fairly quickly, but the general lingering distress hung around them in a low fog. 

"'M sorry," Sam croaked, bleary eyes open again and blinking at Dean. 

"Don't sweat it, man." Dean shifted so he was side by side with his little brother. "C'mon, lean on me." 

Sam scooted closer and pressed himself into the crook of Dean's neck, and Dean wrapped his arms around Sam's impressively broad shoulders. 

"Grew up real big since last time I saw you," Dean murmured, sweeping his hand up and down Sam's spine. "Not a kid anymore, huh?" 

"Kinda feel like it," Sam replied, weak and cracked. 

"Being sad doesn't make you a kid," Dean insisted. "You're allowed to feel sad, Sammy." 

Sam drew Dean closer by the collar of his shirt. Dean, ever capable of carrying Sam's weight no matter how much bigger Sam was, pulled Sam's legs across his lap so he could cradle Sam the way he used to. One hand cupped the crown of his baby boy's head, the other resting on Sam's knees to rock him gently. 

Like riding a bike, Dean thought. You never really forgot. 

"You want me to recite the opening to Ferris Bueller?" He asked, and at the small laugh he earned in response, he continued, "it worked like a charm when you were little. It'd put you right to sleep." 

Dean could feel Sam's breath against his neck, delicate and wavering. 

"Is it okay if we just sit here?" 

"'Course, Sammy. Whatever you need." 

Dean didn't have his watch, and had no concept of how much time had passed before Sam spoke next. 

"I miss her," Sam confessed, and the quiet surrender in his words made Dean's heart ache something fierce. 

"I know," Dean said, even though he didn't know, even though he had no idea what this must have felt like. "We're gonna get what took her, okay?"  _Took_ , not  _killed_ , because Dean wasn't about to phrase it like that when Sam was already so wrecked. "We'll kick its ass." 

"I need it dead," Sam spoke in hushed volumes like he was sharing a secret, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of Dean's shirt. "I need to _see_ it die, Dean. I need to kill it myself." 

For all the blood and slaughter Dean had witnessed in 22 years, hearing those words from Sam was... mildly horrifying. 

"You can do the honors when we find it," he said. "Just don't let this eat at you, Sammy. You can't let it. I don't want you ending up like Dad when we lost Mom." 

For a moment Sam was very still in Dean's arms, and Dean could practically hear the gears turning in Sam's head because Dean never talked about John Winchester like that, Dean never used him as an omen. 

And Dean loved his father. Maybe too much. But it was one thing to take orders from a broken man, and another thing entirely to be responsible for a broken boy. That's what Sam was, at least to Dean; still a boy, one that the world was not allowed to break. Dean wasn't sure when this feeling had bloomed in him, but he knew it to be true: any sort of evil would only take Sam over his dead body. 

"Let's get you back into bed, huh?" Dean suggested, and that was that. 

He hauled Sam to his feet-- hauled being the operative word, because despite Sam's responsiveness, he was also nearly completely limp with exhaustion. 

Dean guided him to the bed and was tucking him under the covers when Sam grabbed hold of his wrist. He looked humiliated by his own desperation to be comforted, his face flushed from crying and his eyes downcast. His lip was quivering again and Dean was ready to bleed if it meant Sam didn't start crying again. 

"What, what's wrong?"

"Can you--" Sam glanced to the empty side of the bed, skittish and afraid. "I don't wanna sleep alone."

They hadn't slept in the same bed since they were children-- well, ever since Sam left for school, and they'd stopped being children long before then. The idea had been under Dean's tongue from the night they left Palo Alto for good; Sam's grief had been tugging at heartstrings Dean thought had been clipped, and if he couldn't protect his brother, then there wasn't much else he felt like doing.

But he hadn't wanted to pressure Sam, or overcrowd him. So he'd kept it to himself.

"Alright," Dean said, clamping hard on any relief that tried to seep out into his tone. "Budge up."

Sam shifted to make room, and Dean took up the threatening empty space of the mattress with ease.

"You wanna be the little spoon?" Dean asked, only half-joking.

"You're such a jerk," Sam mumbled into his pillow.

"C'mon, c'mere." Once under the sheets, Dean got right up behind Sam, the expansion and compression of his chest pressing against the broad plane of Sam's back, and threw an arm across his body to draw him closer. "I gotcha." 

Sam kept trembling every so often (Dean could feel it through the shudders that ran down Sam's spine), but he was much calmer than he had been. 

Dean reminded himself that it had barely been three months since Jess died, and that Sam had always had a penchant for going deep into his feelings and stewing in them. This was normal for anyone, especially for Sam, who had been at a near constant boil just below the surface for most of his adolescence. Losing someone like this would have either sent him bubbling over or doused the flame entirely, leaving him blue-lipped and exposed. Or, Dean considered as he recounted the past several weeks to himself, a terrible combination of both. 

"Dean." 

"Yeah, Sammy, what's up?" 

"What if this thing-- what if it gets you, too?" 

"It's not gonna get me," Dean promised, the resolve in him so strong that he almost convinced himself of it, too. "Would've taken me way sooner if it was planning on it, right?" 

"I don't know." Sam found Dean's arm and held it, like if his grip was tight enough then nothing could take Dean away. "I just. I can't lose you, too."

"And you're not gonna." Dean kissed the top of Sam's head. "I'm right here, I'm not leaving any time soon, I swear." 

The tension in Sam's body faded marginally. "Okay," he whispered. 

"Now get some shut-eye." 

Sam fell asleep faster than Dean had expected. Either the kid was just that tired, or Dean really was that helpful to him. 

Dean did not sleep that night. Instead he kept watch over his baby brother, and saw fire behind his eyelids each time he blinked. 

**Author's Note:**

> y'all can (and should) follow me on tumblr @sxldato and put requests and whatnot in my askbox, i'm very lonely over there


End file.
